


Our Love Was Lost (But Now We've Found It)

by Sunnybone



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix-It of Sorts, GD route, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, non-AM paired ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:47:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24161593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunnybone/pseuds/Sunnybone
Summary: When Sylvain receives Felix's sword eight years after the war ends, he sets out on a journey to find those responsible for Felix's death and avenge him.He doesn't expect what he finds.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 22
Kudos: 236





	Our Love Was Lost (But Now We've Found It)

**Author's Note:**

> Oof I started writing this in August last year lmao when I found out that Sylvix had TWO end cards and I had gotten "the bad one". IntSys said "they were apart for decades, saw each other once, and then never again" and I said "I Pretend I Do Not See It"

When the sword arrives, it nearly breaks Sylvain; he feels cold, deeply, like winter settling into his bone marrow. He knows what the sword means, knows Felix is dead. Everything is numb but the weight of the sword in his hands. He wraps a trembling hand around the hilt, feels how his fingers don't fit the worn grip where Felix's own would have been for years, and he thinks _I will never touch him again_. He is quiet for a long moment, the messenger who delivered the sword respectfully silent, knowing what Sylvain knew when the sword arrived.

Something in Sylvain snaps like thin ice under a boot.

“Where?” Sylvain rasps, and the messenger jumps, not expecting it.

“My lord?” He's confused, and Sylvain finds himself annoyed—the question was simple, and obvious in his opinion.

“Where did the sword come from?” The messenger looks at him in alarm, starts to open his mouth, but Sylvain continues. “I know _who_ it's from; I want to know _where_.” The messenger only looks more nervous.

“My lord, I do not know; I received the sword from another courier, and was only told the destination. I believe, however,” the man continues, something in Sylvain's face urging him, “that he was returning to a village in the Oghma foothills, on the old Leicester side. I could mark it to a map, if you wish?”

Sylvain _does_ wish, and the messenger marks the village out, and once he's dismissed Sylvain starts to plan.

The next morning he leaves Gautier territory under the care of his steward and sets off on his horse, supplies enough to last him a week on the roads, and plenty of places to resupply along the way. It will be a journey of three weeks because of the mountains, and that already puts him at least six weeks behind whoever killed Felix. Because Sylvain knows Felix wouldn't die without a fight, and anyone fighting Felix was on the wrong side. A six week head start won't stop Sylvain from finding that person and watching the life leave their eyes, though.

He travels with a singular purpose, though each night as he beds down he is a haze of old memories, regrets that sit under his skin like old bruises refusing to fade, blood that just pools and pools and never goes away.

+

It stung, but Sylvain understood.

Sylvain had been the one to cling to their childhood promise, "stay together until we die", so of course Felix was the one to cut right through it.

It stung, a lot, but he understood.

He knew Felix had regrets—they all did, no one lived through a war _without_ some regrets, but Felix hated dwelling on the past so much that having regrets must have felt like a personal failing, a complete affront. Sylvain's whole fucking life was built on regret, so he knew how to handle it, or at least handle it while sticking around.

Felix _left_.

Sylvain tried not to take it personally, tried not to _blame_ Felix—reminded himself that he _understood_ why Felix didn't stay. It wasn’t like there was anything between them besides two decades of friendship and a promise to die together—those weren't really reasons to stay for someone like _Sylvain_.

And it wasn't as if Felix knew when he left just how he was hurting Sylvain. Sylvain hadn't ever told him, it just... never seemed welcome, and hell, Sylvain understood _that_ just fine. Sylvain had gotten better with age, but he wouldn't have wanted his twenty-five-year-old self either.

But the fact stood that he was in love with Felix, had probably been forever, because by the time he'd realized exactly _what_ his feelings were, he couldn't remember ever feeling any other way about Felix.

And he wanted to leave with Felix, would have gone if he had _asked_ , would have done _anything_ Felix _asked_ , but Sylvain was trying to do the right thing instead of being selfish, for once. Trying to govern his lands and look out for his people, to forge a future where Crests didn't mean anything, to build a peace with Sreng. Maybe that was why Felix _didn't_ ask. Sylvain comforted himself with that, when he could believe it, instead of the more likely truth that Felix just hadn't thought about it—didn't need or want Sylvain around enough to bother.

Sylvain threw himself into being Margrave and resigned himself to Felix being the strongest of his numerous regrets.

+

The shadow of Conand Tower is the last place Sylvain would choose to camp, even all these years after Miklan's death, but time affords him little choice. He is over six weeks behind already, and every day he wastes is another day separating him from his quarry. So he sets up his bedroll and a fire, secures his mare, and settles in for a night of terrible memories.

This whole hunt will be terrible memories, he knows. There's a part of him that isn't sure _any_ day following will be free of terrible memories. There's a part of him that is hollowed out and dripping with slow ice water, stone-walled and dank and echoing with desperate childish fear. Once that part might have been silenced, bricked over, made distant and harmless, but Felix is gone now and Sylvain thinks the only thing that will satisfy that internal well is dropping a body down it, and he is determined it won't be his own.

At least not to start.

He dreams unpleasant things as Conand Tower watches, wakes in the pre-dawn with shivering gasps and the salt taste of his tears, but he doesn't recall what his dreams were. He brushes trembling fingers across the hilt of Felix's sword, never out of his reach, and he feels the well-water rise and shift.

Sylvain packs up camp and sets out again as the sun rises.

+

On the road Sylvain has nothing but his thoughts; he hasn't traveled alone in years, too 'important' as Margrave to be risked no matter what his battle prowess was, and the silence is crushing.

He thinks about Glenn, and how his death had made Sylvain's warm, open friend into a cold, closed one. Sylvain knew what bitter, painful rage looked like, the kind that sat on your soul like ice, and stung and stung and stung until it numbed. He'd seen it every time he'd looked at Miklan, after all. It was a little sad, he thought, that both Felix and Miklan should feel such pain because of a brother, even if the situations were so very different.

Felix couldn't hurt his brother by calling him a fool who died a wasted death, after all, because Glenn was dead; Sylvain had been quite alive to experience the chill breeze of Miklan's anger. So he recognized the pain in Felix, the rage at its constant dismissal.

_Glenn died a hero, a true knight, with honor. You should be proud._ Honor and pride couldn't comfort a boy whose brother had died horribly, needlessly. Clinging to honor might have helped Ingrid, but it never helped Felix. Ingrid had shut herself in her room until she had found a way to begin accepting; Felix had shut himself inside himself and had never started to accept.

Felix's way of moving forward was to reject all he saw as killing his brother—chivalry, duty, honor—and choose to live by skill and common sense. You saved people because you were strong and they were weak and needed protection, not because of duty or pride or _honor_. Felix had always been interested in the sword, had sparred relentlessly with Glenn, but after Glenn's death he turned all of his focus into becoming strong.

Sylvain eventually understood Felix needed to feel that he was strong enough to never lose someone again, to prevent it with his own hand. It was sweet in the saddest way, and it was so very Felix, and it was so very _painful_ considering the war and _Dimitri_...

They had thought he was dead. They had searched for him, denied the report of his execution, but five _years_ of searching turned up nothing and they couldn't keep waiting and hoping they would find a man who was supposed to be dead. Even if they _did_ find Dimitri, after all that time, they were still on the losing end of a war. They were fighting to stave off death, not to win, and they had to face the reality that they were better off fighting under Claude, who had actual resources and the _ability_ to fight back.

Felix never forgave himself after Gronder.

It wasn't Felix's fault, but he'd been raised to be Dimitri's—friend, knight, vassal, _shield_. He'd raged against the role after the Western rebellion, but Sylvain knew Felix still _loved_ Dimitri. He cared perhaps _too_ deeply, the pain of what was happening to Dimitri and his inability to change it kindling into flame, bubbling over his concern with angry acid.

It wasn't his fault, but Felix still confessed once to Sylvain, quiet and halting from his separate bedroll in the dark of their tent on campaign, of wondering if he might have changed things had he _stayed_. If he could have finally brought _sense_ back to Dimitri, made him see reason enough to ally with Claude instead of chasing down Edelgard and his own death. If he had been _strong_ enough.

Sylvain had trembled in his own bedroll, thinking of Felix sharing the fate of those who had fought under Dimitri's banner—he would have fought until the end, because Felix didn't believe in dying for a king but he was stubborn, too, and would never have surrendered. Sylvain said as much—told Felix it was more likely he would have fallen on the field right alongside Dimitri, _no one_ could have changed his mind, he was _ill_ and had been for years... but he knew Felix. The little 'hmm' was an acknowledgement, not an acceptance, and as the war wore on he looked increasingly conflicted.

It hadn't been that surprising, when he left after the end of it all.

His return, though, had been a punch in the gut.

+

The war with Edelgard was long over, the war with Sreng closer to ending with every day, and Gautier was prospering.

Still, demonic beasts didn't care much about how well you governed, so when reports of a nest cropped up, Sylvain took it seriously. He was long past the days when he would have gone to see to it himself, alone with his hated Relic, and there was money to spare for hiring a mercenary band who specialized in such things to supplement his own soldiers.

He hadn't planned to go, but when the leader of the band had shown up at Sylvain's keep with her lieutenant to get the full details and accept the job, Sylvain had felt like he had during the war when they'd all arrived at the monastery to find Byleth alive.

He had never expected to see Felix again, especially not standing in his study, completely unannounced.

It was purely the skill he'd learned through years of being Margrave that got him through the meeting with the mercenary captain, giving her the details of where the beasts were sighted and which of his men to coordinate with. But when she turned to leave, he couldn't help the slightly desperate way he had looked at Felix, said, “Felix, _wait_.”

And Felix, blessed and beautiful, waited.

After a quick exchange with his captain, Felix and Sylvain were left alone, and Sylvain could only stare at him, eyes roaming where his hands and lips longed to follow. He couldn't stop _looking_ at him, all the changes the years had wrought that Sylvain hadn't been able to witness.

“Where have you been?” Sylvain finally managed to ask, leaning back against his desk for support while Felix remained in the middle of the room, arms crossed and tense.

“You don't know?” he replied, sarcastic, and that stung—when they were younger, Sylvain had always been good at finding Felix if he just looked, had _always_ looked. But... 

“I didn't look for you, Felix—you didn't want to be _found_.” Felix made a face at that, but Sylvain kept going, unwilling to be countered with some falsehood. Felix didn’t disappear for years because he wanted Sylvain to _track him down_ — “I've been here, _right here_ , since the end of the war. I'm not the one who _left_ , _Fe._ You could have come whenever you wanted. I have to assume you _didn't want_.” Sylvain didn’t bother to hide his bitterness, didn’t cover up with any of his false smiles or polite political masks.

Felix could only look at him for a second before his eyes locked back to the floor, fingers tightening on his arms, and in some part of himself Sylvain was gratified to still recognize Felix’s emotions, the anxiety and the unhappiness in his stance. “I didn’t—” Felix grimaced and shifted, uncrossing his arms and dragging a hand over his face in frustration. “I didn’t _mean_ to stay away so long.” 

Sylvain… softened. “Then why did you?” Felix was never that great at talking about emotions, but he owed Sylvain at least _this_ much, right? You can’t promise to stick with someone until you die and then run off on them for a half-decade and _not_ _explain_ when you drop on their doorstep.

Felix seemed to understand that, and Sylvain waited while he struggled through stringing the explanation together.

“It… I needed. Time. And the longer I was away…” he sighed, brushed a hand over his hair—shorter than it’d been since Glenn died, shot through with silver that twisted Sylvain’s heart—and looked around the study. Anywhere but directly at Sylvain. “It got harder to come back, to insert myself in whatever lives you’ve all built.”

Sylvain watched Felix’s shoulders try to rise, watched him force them down.

“There’s always been a place for you, here.” He didn’t realize he’d even said it out loud until Felix’s eyes met his, wide and sunset-gold and _soft_ with the surprise— “Hey. Stick around for dinner? It’s… we have a lot to catch up on.”

“I’m sure your wife will appreciate a sudden guest—” Sylvain’s laugh was as quick and startled as the look Felix gave him.

“Not sure where you got your information, Fe, but I’m _not_ married.” The genuine surprise on Felix’s face beat up against his chest, but Sylvain still knew him too well, still recognized and understood _why_. “My father’s not running things, Felix. I’m not marrying _anyone_ just for heirs, I’m not—” Sylvain sighed, his turn to run a hand through his hair, drag knuckles down his jaw and the beard that wasn’t even a thought the last time they’d met. “Stay for dinner.” 

And Felix nodded and stayed, for all the good it did Sylvain.

+

Sylvain sets himself a punishing pace, travels hard and fast as he can without harming the horses he’s traded out at inns along the way that he never bothers to stay in. He crosses the Oghma mountains closer to Galatea than he’s comfortable with; surely his steward will have sent Ingrid word, by now, of his mad flight across the continent for vengeance. Surely it will remind her of Dimitri. Surely she would try to talk him down from this course, to comfort him as they’ve comforted each other for years.

It’s not easy, being the only two left.

But his vengeance, huge as it feels to _Sylvain_ , isn’t the type of thing that sets countries aflame. The only life it will burn is his own, once he’s finished burning whoever took Felix from the world.

He’s careful in her lands to leave as little trace as he can, and pushes on through the mountain passes. His sleep, when he finally allows it, is fitful in the knowledge that he draws ever closer to the place where Felix _died_.

When he wakes, drawn and empty, he pulls on the low coals of vengeance warming in his chest to put him back in his saddle and moving forward again.

+

Felix stayed for dinner and he stayed for drinks, and he stayed when Sylvain overindulged in ways he hadn’t since the war and half-drunkenly sighed that he had _missed_ Felix. He stayed when Sylvain brushed a reverent thumb across a sharp cheek, eyes too open and _honest_ , and Sylvain never could have said who kissed who first but Felix stayed the night, too.

He stayed as long as the job took. Sylvain went with the mercenaries to clear out the demonic beasts, because he couldn’t stomach having Felix so near and not being _with_ him, and Felix _stayed_ then, too. They shared a tent like they had during the war, but without the separation of singular bedrolls on opposite sides, instead twined together even in chaste, exhausted sleep. 

Sylvain reveled in their mingled heat and breath, in _Felix_ , and bit his tongue against every emotion that choked him, swelling up through his throat and trying to pass his lips.

He didn't _say_ he loved Felix, was _afraid_ to—Felix left _before_ , disappeared for years without looking back while Sylvain thought of him _constantly_ —but he put the feeling into every motion. Every kiss, every surrender, every sigh and moan, every tender brush of his fingertips and every heated scratch of his nails. Sylvain _cherished_ Felix for every second he was allowed to, and still...

It wasn't enough. 

Sylvain never _was_.

"Stay," he said when the job was over, and "please," he added, even though it hurt. He meant it. Felix hesitated a moment, and then Sylvain saw the straightening of his back and his stomach sank.

"I can't." What had he expected? "I still have battles to fight." Of course.

He didn't push, though he knew he could and half-felt like Felix wanted him to. The memory of a decades old half-joke, "our friendship or your training," and how easily Felix had walked away kept him from pushing. The thought of Felix so easily throwing him away again hurt worse than the time during the war when he'd been knocked off his horse in battle and broken three ribs, worse than the memory of Felix _leaping_ over his prone form to decapitate the enemy bearing down on him, worse than realizing _now_ instead of _right then_ that he loved Felix more than anyone.

So he didn't push. "Will you come back?"

"If you need me."

Sylvain did not say that he always needed Felix, always had without realizing.

The next morning, eating his breakfast alone after sleeping alone, he regretted not pushing it, not telling Felix "I need you to stay." He regretted it every time he opened a letter from Ingrid, every anniversary of Dimitri's death, every year that passed and Felix did not return.

+

The village, when he finds it, is small but seems well enough off. There’s construction going on, repairs on some homes that look like they might have seen combat; Sylvain recognizes the damage from old Srengi raids on Gautier villages in the past.

It lights a little hope in him; when Felix had left, Sylvain hadn’t followed him, but he’d finally decided to keep track. Maybe those first five years, Felix really _had_ been waiting for Sylvain to show up like always, searching him out. In the three that followed their brief reunion, Sylvain only wanted to know where he was—it tore him enough that Felix wasn’t with _him_ , and he just needed to _know._

Two years in, he somehow lost track.

Felix left the mercenary band and went out on his own, and a lone swordsman with his skills for survival wasn’t easy to keep track of. Sylvain didn’t think he would have settled down, was more likely wandering and taking jobs with his sword, but only the Goddess really knew.

A village like this, with a bandit problem, might be just the kind of place Felix would have stopped. Might be just the kind of place to get him killed, finally.

Sylvain stops at the little inn, gives Felix’s description and shows the sword buckled at his hip, and the recognition in the eyes of the innkeeper makes his throat tight. Even dead, Sylvain is still good at tracking Felix down if he just _looks_. The innkeeper gives him directions to the town healer, tells Sylvain she’ll have more information, and Sylvain is out of the inn before the man can even offer him a room.

The healer’s house is small and warm, an herb garden in the front that pangs and makes him think of Mercie, makes him think of Dedue. The healer herself is small and round and wrinkled, dark-haired and dark-skinned, with a kindness that shines out of creased green eyes. Almyran, he thinks, and she takes one look at him and tuts in concern and ushers him into her home.

She tries to press him into a seat even as she says, "You look exhausted, Dear. Come, sit, tell me what ails you." He doesn't sit, even as cool light washes over him and soothes the bite of headache he'd woken from his meager sleep with.

"I'm not ill," he says, ignores the way her eyebrow lifts, "I'm looking for—" _Felix_ , "for information." Her eyes follow his hand to his hip, to the sword, and Sylvain sees the recognition. When she looks back up, he expects pity or sympathy, but she only smiles and pats his arm.

"You've traveled quite fast, then, no wonder. Well, come along, he's in the back." _He's in the back_. Sylvain's heart stutters with mingled horror and awe—hadn't they _buried_ him yet? Has it been that cold here? Surely not—but. To _see_ Felix, even one more time, even _dead_... he follows her wordlessly down a hallway and into a sunny room and he can only stand in the doorway and listen to his heart pound in his ears, uncomprehending, as she says, "You've got a _visitor_." She turns and moves out of the doorway and Sylvain entirely loses track of where she goes after that because he can't take his eyes off of the man in the middle of the room.

“Felix?” Sylvain's hands shake, his whole fucking _soul_ is shaking, and his first step forward is a stumble as he lifts a hand in surprise. Felix sits in a bed, propped up by pillows, an open book forgotten in his lap, loose shirt showing a hint of bandages that wrap up from his chest over his shoulder.

“ _Sylvain_?!” He sounds incredulous, as if the last place Sylvain should be was here, in this tiny sickroom, and then, “You left before my letter arrived, didn't you?” Sylvain can't speak for a moment, just continues to the bed where a very alive Felix is sitting like he hasn't been dead for weeks, cold and buried inside Sylvain's ribcage.

“You're here.”

“Where _else_ would I be—Sylvain?” Sylvain thumps down onto the corner of the mattress, puts his head in his hands, and laughs.

“They sent me your _sword_ , Felix.” He doesn't feel like he can say everything he wants to say, needs to say, because it's all so garbled up under the fact that Felix is sitting here in front of him, alive—looking thinner and worn, tired, but still so fucking _beautiful_. Felix just looks at his sword, attached to Sylvain's hip.

“I know, I sent a letter when I was able—“

“Why the hell would they send me your _sword_ , Felix, I thought you were fucking _dead_!” Felix recoils in surprise, blinking, and then he frowns, confused.

“I almost was, they didn't think I would live; they were a bit premature in sending my sword _anywhere_." It's soft and grumpy, and Sylvain feels slightly hysterical. "Sylvain, what are you doing here if you thought I was dead? Why did you bring my sword all the way—“

“Because I was going to use it to kill the bastard who killed _you_.” And then he might have fallen on it himself, if the day was going that way. Felix stares at him for a moment, Sylvain with no mask, totally open: weeks of anguish thinking Felix was dead in the lines and bruises around his eyes, his speed towards vengeance in his wind-chapped face, the new freckles standing on his burnt nose and cheeks. But most damning, the slow smile he can't help, because Felix is _gorgeous_ , the most beautiful thing Sylvain has ever seen— _alive_ , breathing and blinking and frowning at him, eyes widening and flicking away to his own hands in his lap, his cheeks and ears pink even as he scowls.

“Well. Too late for that,” Felix says, plucking at the blanket over his lap. “I killed the bandits, so there wouldn’t have been anyone to strike down.”

“Felix… _Fe_.” Sylvain lifts a shaking hand towards him, catches himself, clenches his fingers on empty air. "Why'd they send _me_ your sword?"

“Who _else_ would I have sent it to? Who else have I ever—” Felix's mouth snaps shut as he looks up and sees Sylvain's face, the clenched hand retreating, and he catches it in his own. "There's no one else I would want to have it," he says, his voice soft, and that hits Sylvain right in the center of his being—it's tradition, dying in battle, to leave your sword to your liege or your _love_ ; Sylvain knows there's never been a _moment_ when Felix would have considered _Sylvain_ his _liege_. He heaves a shuddering breath as he scoots up the mattress and brings his free hand up to cup Felix's face, watches Felix's eyelashes flutter when he leans into it.  
  
"You're alive," Sylvain murmurs, and then he leans in to kiss Felix, soft and warm and opening so easy for him; the world becomes Felix's hands curled in the front of his shirt, his own fingers in Felix's hair, longer now, as long as when they'd attended the academy, the sigh and bow of Felix's body as Sylvain sips his breath from his mouth because he's alive, alive, _alive_. "You're here, you're _alive_ ," he breathes, sitting back to rake eyes over every inch of Felix's face, held in his palms.

Felix is pink and breathing fast, lips shiny with spit from his kisses, eyes dark and wide and molten. "I'm here," he says, his voice gone low, and Sylvain pulls him into his chest and holds him, tucks Felix's head under his chin until his own sudden shaking calms. Felix's hands unlatch from his shirt, slide around his sides to clutch at his back, his shoulders. " _You're_ here."

"Of course I'm here," Sylvain answers, his own voice rough. His hand skims light along Felix's back, feels the bandages under his shirt. Remembers Felix saying _I almost was_ and holds him closer, feels the kiss of Felix's eyelashes against his throat. "How are you healing? Will you be well enough to travel, soon?" He can _feel_ Felix's bemused little smile against his skin, and Sylvain leans back finally so he can see it. 

Felix's fingers tighten on the back of his shirt to keep him from going too far before he answers, "I'm not a healer, you'd have to ask Basima, though I _feel_ like I've _been_ well enough." Felix frowns, small and annoyed as he glances at the doorway, and Sylvain privately blesses the sweet old healer for keeping Felix safe and _here_ for Sylvain to find him. "Why, where do you want me to go?"

"Home?" he asks, hopeful, and Felix's frown deepens.

"I _gave up_ my title, Sylvain." Felix's gaze drops to Sylvain's chest, brows pulled down and eyelashes drawn over his eyes like screens, and Sylvain _loves_ him. He would know better than anyone that Felix gave his title up—Fraldarius is Gautier's closest non-hostile neighbor and trading partner, and every meeting and negotiation with Felix's uncle had been a stabbing reminder of Felix's absence. He brushes a thumb across Felix's cheek and down to run along his bottom lip before catching his chin and tipping his face up.

"I meant to Gautier, Felix." Sylvain watches the understanding and awe bloom on his face, revels in how Felix's mouth falls open in surprise, how his eyes burn bright and golden in the sunlight from the windows. "Come home." Felix's breath hitches and Sylvain slips his hand back into Felix's hair, cradles the back of his head as his eyes roam Felix's face again, hungrily memorizing each little touch of time he'd missed. “I should’ve held on. I _had you_ and I should’ve held on.”

Felix's voice breaks, “ _I_ should have _stayed_.” He surges up and kisses Sylvain, pulls him in with the hands on his back, and Sylvain knows he can wait to ask _why didn't you_? They'll have time for that, time to talk over the hurt and the distance of eight separate years. For now he just lets Felix kiss him, lets himself hold his friend and his love and bask in being alive _together_.

+

_Felix returned with Sylvain to Gautier, and before long they married. Sylvain penned a peace treaty that saw much of the Gautier lands returned to Sreng after King Lambert's annexation. Sylvain eventually passed on his title, and he and Felix retired to a smaller home they filled with warmth and love for each other. One morning many, many years into their marriage, when Sylvain's beard was more grey than ginger and Felix's hair was entirely white, a maid coming to wake them for a late breakfast found them curled in each others' arms in one last loving, peaceful embrace._

_They were entombed side by side; Sylvain never did return Felix's sword, and it was still in his hands, clasped on his chest like a king of old, when they buried him._

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> As I told my best friends, "I'm going to give them a happy ending, but I'm going to drag Sylvain through broken glass and lemon juice first"
> 
> Find me on twitter at [@AceMorningStar](https://twitter.com/AceMorningStar)


End file.
